


Glow

by hibiscus_tea



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (that's pidge), Alcohol, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Interior Designer Keith, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pilot Shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 23:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibiscus_tea/pseuds/hibiscus_tea
Summary: Shiro is a newly-wealthy astronaut recovering from seven years in space and the traumatic loss of a limb. Keith is a young, self-made interior design star at odds with the course of his life.They both need something that feels like home.





	Glow

“How old are you, again?” Keith asks.

 

“Twenty-one,” Pidge says.

 

He watches blithely as she makes the ice blender her bitch.

 

“I don’t believe you,” he says.

 

She looks fabulously androgynous with her bare shoulders and the glint of a flat stud in her lip. Top shelf tequila spills into the smooth glass. The rest of the concoction follows from the blender. Wedge of lime at the salt crust rim.

 

“I have a supervisor.”

 

Behind the dry bar, Coran spins slowly on a sleek stool.

 

“Beautiful work, my boy,” Coran tells him. The waxed, orange mustache grows exponentially bushier every time they meet. “Stunning bathroom.”

 

“Thanks, Coran,” Keith smiles, aching for a drink.

 

The drink slides up, clicks against his monochrome rings. He nudges it to the side, thinking about coasters, and the headache he’s going to have tomorrow afternoon - unrelated.

 

“And, uh,” he surveys the back wall selection. Past midnight means rosé graduation, especially after the glasses are out of circulation. “Give me a Few on the rocks.”

 

“You should try it,” Pidge tells him, meaning the cocktail. “It’s good.”

 

“How would you know?”

 

“Toushe,” Pidge deadpans. “Coran, try this.”

 

Keith’s drink is requisitioned, and Coran’s unusually long, pale neck bends for a dainty sip from the slim black straw.

 

“Ooh, what a kick!”

 

Elbow on the bar, head spinning pleasantly, Keith scans the milling crowd to the soundtrack of obnoxious British lip smacking. The living room is all sleek, greyscale, comfortable lines and a cityscape most people would give an arm for. Guests sink into the long, deep couches, lean up against paint-sectioned walls.

 

It’s an ambush from the left, Allura’s summer champagne nails wrenching into his bare forearm.

 

“Hello Pidge, Coran,” she coos, syrupy. “And Keith, there you are.”

 

Her glass is empty, and she has a small, harried man in tow.

 

“Ah, yes. Keith!” The man enthuses, ignoring the bar’s other occupants. “You are the talk of the town. And by town I mean the party!”

 

Allura laughs too loudly. Keith, good friend that he is, lets dainty acrylics draw blood.

 

“Keith, this is Slav,” she tells him as Pidge surreptitiously tops up the glass at her elbow. Blessedly, Keith’s bourbon nudges quietly at his wrist, too. “He works with my father.”

 

“Well, actually-”   

 

“We were just talking about the bathroom,” Allura interrupts easily. Her thick, white hair is pinned up in winding braids, her dress is timeless, effortless. But she is- frazzled.

 

“Oh, yes! I would have made it a little bit smaller-”

 

“Hey, Slav,” Pidge interrupts. An angel in muted moss green. “What’re you drinking?”

 

“Are you seriously the bartender? I am not drinking anything, and neither should you be. How old are you, miss?”

 

Keith sighs, quietly collects his drinks.

 

“Twenty-one.”

 

It’s a tiptoe to the adjacent hallway with Allura in tow. Rounding the corner, Allura’s nose is already buried in her drink, bracelets clinking as she drowns herself in it.

 

“This thing is a nightmare,” Keith tells her. “I lost Shiro an hour ago.”

 

“Beautiful, though,” Allura tells him, wiping the spilt liquor from under her lip.

 

“Mm,” Keith says, getting the first fiery-smooth gulp of his drink. “God, that’s good.”

 

They wobble down the hallway together, past the guest bedroom and ensuite, through Living Room 2: Electric Boogaloo, with the unfortunate adjacent apartment block view.

 

“So many rooms,” Keith says, even though he’s been through here four or five times a week for eight months. Allura, who grew up in a veritable mansion, hums.

 

*

 

They migrate to the bathroom, and find the party distilled into Keith’s pride and joy. The master bathroom nook.

 

Keith groans, shoulder propped against the door. “Lance is in here.”

 

“Hello!” Allura calls, muscling in behind him. “We’ve come to join the party!”

 

Mint green is a choice, and Allura has made it, sweeping through his classic-lines bathroom like a drunk, accented angel. Keith’s candles are still burning sweet, smooth, masculine at the double sinks, wavering light reflecting in the broad mirrors, and the dark, tall windows at either end of the space.

 

With Matt and Lance settled on the couch, Allura sprawls herself elegantly on the chaise lounge, holds her drink with both dainty hands and tips it into her mouth, heedless of the straw or her lipstick.

 

“Keith, hey.” Rolo: up-and-coming music producer with the eternal rolled cigarette tucked behind his ear like an eighth piercing, and an affinity for showing off too much chest. Likely here as part of Lance’s every-sketchy entourage.

 

“Rolo,” Keith says. But it’s his night off and small talk grates across his molars at the best of times.

 

Instead of getting acquainted with the intimate crowd in the most peaceful room in the penthouse, he cosies himself up with Allura, sits with her smooth calves in his lap and drinks.

 

Time passes liquid, bourbon chunks of ice between his teeth. He invests himself in conversation with Allura to avoid another round of congratulations. It’s been too since he’s seen the host. Or his co-host for the evening. Condensation sticks to his palm from the cocktail in it’s thick glass.

 

After draining his bourbon, the room spins pleasantly. Keith deposits two glasses - one full one empty - on the floor and makes his slow descent into sequestering some of the chaise longue for his own. He ends up sprawl-spooning in Allura’s perfumed embrace.

 

“This is my baby,” Keith ruminates quietly, tucked under her arm.

 

“A hard work baby,” she tells him, stroking a stray strand of hair from his forehead. It’s comforting, but the insides of him still smoothly churn. The feeling is rubble in his joints, uncomfortable.

 

“Every part of this project took too long. The ceiling in here took a week.”

 

“It’s worth it,” Allura tells him. “I want you to come and do my bathroom.”

 

“I can’t bear to leave it behind,” Keith admits.

 

He’s in mourning. It’s the urge to sink into the obsidian countertops and haunt his unfinished business. Namely, the deep, wide basin of the bathtub.

 

It’s alright to sink into that quiet longing. Pressed to Allura’s chest, he lets himself be lulled by the soft vibration of her voice through her chest, the quiet chatter of conversation over his head.

 

Eventually people siphon from the bathroom, leaving Allura, Lance, and Matt to chat quietly over empty drinks.

 

“Hey, Keith. You alright, man?” Matt asks him.

 

It pulls him out from that muted sphere in his chest, and into the candle-smooth air.

 

“I want a bath,” Keith decides.

 

“What?” Allura asks. “Now?”

 

“It’s my last night,” Keith announces. “I want a bath.”

 

He disentangles himself from Allura’s embrace and makes his unsteady way across the room to his baby. The love of his life. Smooth porcelain sides. Deep and wide enough for Shiro to relax in. Everything for comfort and style.

 

Keith lovingly caresses the sleek knobs for a moment before he turns the hot water on, a stream cascading into the tub. A rummage in the storage space and he’s pouring scent into the basin, watching the bubbles rise with the steaming water level.

 

“Is this allowed?” Lance asks in the background.

 

“It’s his bathroom,” Matt shrugs.

 

It’s his bathroom.

 

His pants are too tight like this, and he fumbles at the heavy buckle of his belt. It comes off with the noise of metal on metal, and he drops it to the soft fur bath mat. His shoes come off next, toed clumsily to the floor, misshapen leather be damned.

 

The wolf whistles are obnoxious, considering it’s only three of them creating the sounds. He dips a toe in first after he shuts the water off, watches his skin go slightly pink with the heat as he slides his calf in.

 

“How is it?” Allura calls.

 

Keith sets his foot down and settles himself in the bath.

 

“It’s good,” Keith sighs. Satisfied. He tilts his head up to the ceiling and imagines Shiro resting against the rim of the tub, imagines the stress melting off those broad shoulders. A flash of what it could be with the both of them. Quiet evenings and soapy hands on bare skin. Keith shuts his eyes, tilts his head back. Opens them again.

 

If this bathroom is his masterpiece, then the ceiling is his lead paint fumes. A slow death for love of art.  

 

At night, like this, dark except for the light view of the city, a galaxy sprawls overhead. Tiny star pinpricks glow and twinkle, catching on Keith’s bare skin, shading the understated, sleek comfort of the room. A muted, bruised galaxy to think and to breathe in.

 

“Fuck,” Keith sighs. Props his head in his hand, elbow on the rim.

 

Intoxication and longing make Shiro’s eventual appearance cosmic. Soap scented heaven and Shiro’s voice calling his name.

 

“Keith. Keith.”

 

So far above him. The scar across the bridge of Shiro’s nose pulls and crinkles with his smile.

 

Shiro squats down beside the tub, rests a bare forearm and a state-of-the-art matte prosthetic on the rim.

 

“Hey,” Shiro says, “what’re you up to, buddy?”

 

Keith resents that if a pet name was chosen, it was this one.

 

“Using the bath,” Keith tells him, unable to bite back the disgruntlement.

 

It makes Shiro laugh. Keith has never seen it so up close. He reaches out a soapy hand to touch the crinkled point of a scar. Shiro’s hands envelop his. Warm, callused grip and almost human metal.

 

“I got you a drink,” Keith says, curling his fingers around Shiro’s prosthetic ones. “I swear I didn’t mix it.”

 

“Oh yeah? Where is it?” Shiro asks. Keith knows he’s being coddled. But Shiro’s gaze hasn’t wavered, and neither has the soft uptilt of his smile. So it’s easy not to care.

 

“On the floor, by the chaise longue,” Keith murmurs. Sinks further into the water to rest his head on the rim of the tub, raises soapy knees above the water. Like polar north to south, Shiro drifts closer.

 

“This seems a little unprofessional,” Shiro says quietly, touching Keith’s hand like he is.

 

“It’s my bathroom,” Keith echoes Allura’s earlier assertion.

 

“It’s my bathroom,” Shiro counters.

 

Despite the tease in the phrase, the words themselves are a too-hot slice of reality. Under the constellation ceiling, Keith turns his head, relinquishes his hold on Shiro’s hands. Watches soap bubbles pop.

 

“Mm.”

 

Shiro withdraws, returns drink in hand. He sips and hums appreciatively. “Did you try this?”

 

Keith is raw. The flames fumed by that last, ill-advised bourbon. Wine-drunk, and chest boiling over.

 

He inhales. “Shiro.”

 

“It is your bathroom,” Shiro murmurs. “I want to talk about this when we--” he takes a sip of his drink, “when we haven’t been drinking.”

 

Loneliness prominent as an adams apple. Keith swallows around the name he’s given the feeling, lolls his head against smooth porcelain and feels the curling hairs at the nape of his neck wet.

 

Shiro’s hand dips into the water, wet knuckles leaving slim tracks through thick bubbles.

 

“I want you to feel comfortable in this space,” Shiro confesses quietly. He gazes into his drink, glances up to meet Keith’s eyes and holds it. “I think you put your soul into your work. When I walk through this house, I feel it.”

 

Under the water, Keith wraps his arms around his chest, seeks out one of Shiro’s swirling fingers and curls his index around it, hesitant as Shiro’s speech.

 

For a moment Shiro trails off, looks at the spot where his finger disappears below the bubbles as if he’ll be able to see their connection through the foam.

 

“It would be unfair of me to keep you from it,” Shiro says quietly.

 

Articulate, even with alcohol in his veins and on his breath. For his turn, Keith can’t issue a response. It takes a few tries, a clearing of his throat above the steam.

 

“Thank you for seeing that,” he says. Never one to subscribe to bullshit. The brief was to create a home from a too-big apartment and a life from empty years left behind. He’s given design as comfort, his own sense of self as shelter.

 

“I don’t feel good,” he whispers. That last drink is catching up with him, swaying behind his eyes, doing nasty things to his stomach contents.

 

“Oh,” Shiro says, like a jolt to a reverie. A call to action with the way he looks over his shoulder. His finger unlinks from Keith’s shakes droplets over the bath as he stands.

 

He appears seconds later with a thick, cream towel. “Can you stand?”

 

“Yeah,” Keith says, moves with slow, sure-footed movements. Stands up with the water streaming off him and his skin flushed from the heat, and Shiro’s towel-covered hands are there to ease him out.

 

The towel wraps around him, protecting his modesty from Lance’s sudden loud complaining, fading into consciousness like the drone of a persistent insect.   

 

“Keith? Are you alright?” Allura asks. She’s got her head in Lance’s lap, on the chaise longue, Matt is reclined on upholstered bench with the recently-appeared Pidge.

 

“Not feeling so hot,” Keith tells her, feels Shiro’s steady hands on his shoulders. He wobbles even with the steadying hold, and Shiro steps closer, chest to back.

 

“Will you be okay if I pick you up?” Shiro asks him quietly.

 

“I can walk,” Keith tells him.

 

*

 

Shiro deposits him on the smooth sheets of the master bed, turns down the other side for Keith to climb into.

 

“Hang on, don’t fall asleep yet. Let me get you some clothes.”

 

“This is your bed,” Keith says. His voice is rough and quiet. He rubs his cheek against the pillows he’d picked out and carefully highlighted on that first board he’d presented. It smells faintly of Shiro.

 

He pulls up the duvet and tosses his damp towel out to the floor.

 

“I know, I'm sorry,” Shiro says. “People are still in the guest bedroom.”

 

“Shit,” Keith sighs as the room spins again. He feels like clinging to the floor of the deathtrap merry-go-round from a childhood playground. Spinning faster than the earth and just as terrified of the present as the future- the stop. “I fucked up, Shiro. I shouldn’t have drunk that last fucking-”

 

He can’t even say the word bourbon - his stomach holds it hostage.

 

“It’s alright, Keith. You deserve to have a some fun,” Shiro tells him, depositing a pair of loose boxers on the duvet, along with a threadbare shirt with a peeling logo across the chest.

 

“You played lacrosse?” Keith asks.

 

“College team,” Shiro laughs quietly. He sits on the bed by Keith’s hip. “Is this alright? I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom when everyone’s gone.”

 

Keith draws the duvet up to his bare, wet shoulders. “Hey,” he says, brow furrowing. “No. Just... sleep here.”

 

“Keith,” Shiro sighs. It’s too heavy.

 

“Can you turn off the light?” Keith asks. The bed lifts and Shiro crosses the room for the lightswitch. Not total a total plunge when the main lights go off. Instead, there’s quiet glow from the floor on either side of the bed to make a friendly dark.

 

“Now come here,” Keith orders, voice quiet.

 

“Keith,” Shiro says again, barely edging on a warning.

 

“Just come here, Shiro.”

 

There’s a slight hesitation, and then Shiro’s footsteps come steadily across the floor, muffled by thick carpet. He kneels at Keith’s side, handsome face illuminated by the soft bedside glow.

 

Keith untangles a hand from the covers, reaches out to cup the back of Shiro’s neck. Draws him close, meets him with a kiss.

 

There’s a shocked little breath, an exhale over his cheek. The tiny, wet pop as they pull apart, a sigh as Keith leans again to catch Shiro’s mouth. Chaste, wavering kisses with Shiro’s breath filling the silence.

 

After an endless spill of seconds, Keith sinks back into the pillow, watching Shiro’s face. It’s a strange, open look. His kissed mouth, his furrowed brows.

 

All in a rush, he chases Keith down into the sheets and kisses him firmly, earnestly, fingers sinking into his hair.

 

When the pull back this time, Keith feels flushed. Vibrating at a frequency that turns his bones to dust.

 

“I just want you to stay,” Shiro whispers, expression cracked. He swallows, clears his throat with his brows still drawn. “We should talk about this tomorrow. We shouldn’t have-”

 

He cuts himself off, and Keith turns to look at the ceiling instead.

 

“Sure,” he says. “Okay.”

 

“Keith,” Shiro pleads. “Keith, look at me.”

 

Blinking nonsense tears from the corners of his eyes, Keith turns to look at Shiro. Feels a tear trail down his cheek anyway, highlighted by the bedside glow.

 

Shiro sighs, settles closer so that his breath touches Keith’s cheek.

 

“What I have to say… it’s important. And I want you to remember when we talk about it. That’s not how I want to start this, okay?”

 

He searches for Keith’s hand under the duvet, brushes Keith’s bare side. Their fingers intertwine.

 

“But you want to start something,” Keith hedges quietly, voice scattered over the emotion lodged in his throat. Nameless, unfurling.

 

“Yes,” Shiro tells him, squeezes his hand. Fitted in that warm, callused palm. “I want- I want a lot of things.”

 

It takes a moment, but Keith squeezes back.

 

There’s a breath to shift the mood. Fingers untangle.

 

“I’ll see you later,” Shiro promises. A moment of hesitation, before he tips forward and steals another kiss. Keith lets his eyes slide shut and thinks of all the things he wants.

 

“Later,” Keith echoes.

 

“And put some clothes on,” Shiro begs him, stands.

 

Sleep soaks in slowly, melting Keith into the smooth, fresh sheets.

 

“No promises,” he murmurs.

 

When the door shuts, he curls into his pillow and smiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i've been sitting on this au for ages hoping to incubate it into something worth posting. in my heart of hearts its a 30k colleagues to friends to lovers slow burn, and there are so many thing i wanted to give to this hypothetical fic but. this was the important bit. 
> 
> hopefully it stands alone well enough! 
> 
> i've been having some trouble finding motivation for fic lately, so please let me know what you think about this - it's a new direction for me and i'd love to hear your opinions
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](https://vers-shiro.tumblr.com/)


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